apprentice would pass you in peace. But offer us death, and it shall be yours!'
Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles. Narm kept his composure with an effort, as the boy cast him a frightened look and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and then stared straight ahead as he rode past the other men and the mules behind, managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.
'Sarhthor?' Sememmon asked aloud, peering into the depths of the crystal ball before him. Its magical telepathy was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he could see flickering lamps and an expressionless, elegantly bearded face. Sarhthor looked back at him and sent his thoughts without speaking. Sememmon tried to hide his own irritation at the other mage's precise ease of art and apparent fearlessness.
'Well met, Sememmon. I have searched the dale. Elminster and the knights have just returned, using the road south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are not here, as far as I can determine.'
'Not in Shadowdale?'
'Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it. None of the knights-or those Harpers I can observe in safety-have gone anywhere out of the ordinary or met with anyone. The folk of the tower know they left two nights ago.'
'Two nights?' Sememmon almost screamed. 'Why, they could be almost anywhere!'
Precisely why I'm returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, then said aloud, 'By the way, who is that with you?'
'With me?' Sememmon asked, angry and startled. 'I am alone!'
'You are indeed-now. A moment ago there was an eye floating above your left shoulder-the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy, then. Guard yourself, Sememmon.'
Sememmon had already turned angrily away from the ball, to stare wildly about his chamber. 'Show yourself!' he thundered, casting a detect magic spell. Dweomer-the auras of familiar objects imbued with art- glowed all around him. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in the field of revealed magic created by his spell, but they were all spells he knew about, preservative and defensive, all art that should be there. There was no sign of any intruder.
At last Sememmon turned angrily back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe at the other end any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows about him, but they did not answer.
The sun was low again. Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them as they rode, their bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had acted suspicious of them at the inn Florin had recommended.
'How do you feel, my lady?' Narm asked suddenly, not meeting her eyes. 'About the spellfire, I mean. Does it… change one?'
A little startled at the suddenness of the question, Shandril looked at him with something close to pity in her eyes. 'Yes, no doubt. But not in the larger sense, I think. I am still the Shandril you rescued from Rauglothgor.' She hesitated, then added in a much softer voice, 'I am still the Shandril you love.'
Narm looked at her, and there was a little silence as they regarded each other. And then the attack came.
Shandril felt something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm's shoulder, and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm was whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, and he toppled and fell.
Stunned, Shandril stared at the huge, mossy boulder as it settled past her to hang above Narm's head. He lay crumpled, unmoving. The boulder sank slowly, and over the grassy bank beyond where Narm lay, Shandril saw a man in robes.
He grinned at her without humor. His eyes glittered black and deadly. She drew breath to scream, as wild fear rose and choked her from within.
15
I have known the crushing of the soul that defeat brings, and the burning, sickening pain of deep wounds- and would not have it otherwise. Such dark things make the bright spots burn the brighter.
'No… make no sound,' the man in robes warned. 'Speak not. Cast no spells. Use no spellfire, Shandril Shessair-or I will let fall the rock on the head of your husband.' His eyes bore into hers. 'Do not think to trick me or take me unaware,' the man added calmly, 'for I am not such a fool-and yonder stone can hardly miss its mark.'
Shandril sat still in her saddle, cold fear trickling slowly-slowly and chillingly-down her spine. She stared at the mage and wondered for an instant who this one was. How to win free? her mind screamed then. How to win free?
'I am Malark ' the man said with cold pride, 'of the Cult of the Dragon. I come for revenge, and I will have it.' His eyes flickered. 'Get down off your horse slowly, and stay just where you land, or your husband will die.'
Shandril did as he commanded, never taking her eyes off his. He watched her with the cold patience of a snake.
'Lie down. Slowly. To your knees, and then upon your belly, arms outstretched toward me. Do not touch any weapon.' Shandril did so, heart sinking as she pressed her face into the rocky ground. 'Good,' said the voice coldly.
'Spread your arms and legs apart. Do not try to rise.'
He was nearer. Shandril obeyed, wondering how much she'd have the courage to endure. She gathered spellfire within her, silently. Malark walked around her, staying at a safe distance. Angry warmth filled her chest and throat. She glared at the grass before her eyes, and it began to smoulder. She hooded her fire, hastily, and held herself ready. Tymora aid me!
'You have cost us much indeed, Shandril Shessair. The Shadowsil, the dracolich Rauglothgor, his lair, and the fortified tower above it, with all his treasure, the dracolich Aghazstamn, many devout worshippers-the worth of all these, you owe us. The price is your spellfire-that, and your service and that of your husband. You may serve us, or die. Lie still.' The cold voice began the mutterings of spellcasting.
Gods aid me, Shandril thought. What will become of us? There are no knights here to rescue us, now.
Malark's cold chanting ended in a sudden squealing, gurgling sound. Shandril, waiting to absorb his spell, froze and then rolled over in breathless haste. If that rock fell on Narm…
But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a grinning Rathan. Malark stood staring at her, black eyes very dark and very large, and over his shoulder Torm was grinning.
In the thief's hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark's spell in mid-word. Malark was hanging from the cord now, face terrible, frantic fingers clawing at the cord about his throat growing feeble. Malark's eyes rolled up into his skull, and he began to sag. Torm held the cord tight as he lowered the mage slowly to the ground.
'Well met,' the thief said cheerfully as he rolled the body over, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion, and beckoned Rathan over with a jerk of his head. 'His purse, quickly, before he is fully dead… these damned mages all have spells set to trigger all manner of mischief at their deaths.'
Rathan bent to work obediently. 'Ho, Shandril-thy lad's all right,' he said quickly. Shandril stared at the boulder, now sunk into the grass nearby, and shuddered. 'Nothing but a bit of rag and a handful of coppers,' Rathan told Torm.
